


Small Blue Thing

by Crollalanza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Established Victuuri, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Post-Grand Prix Final
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky's life is perfect. He's the Grand Prix Champion, with a huge fanbase and a beckoning horizon few sixteen-year-olds can dream of.Or it would be fucking perfect if Victor's choreography and choice of song for his new routine weren't so fucking dull.(and if the ache in his legs wasn't affecting his spins)(or if he was speaking to someone who's supposed to be his friend)Vulnerable? Him? Never! What the fuck is Victor thinking of, picking that particular song?





	1. cold against your skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rinoa11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinoa11/gifts).



> This is a delayed (sorry, sorry) birthday present for the beautiful and talented Eilidh (rinoa11). 
> 
> Eilidh and I both love Suzanne Vega, and when I was listening to her album, quite determined to write her some UshiOi, this song (Small Blue Thing) leapt out at me as did the image of Yuri P skating to it.

_‘Today I am_  
_a small blue thing_  
_like a marble or an eye._  
_With my knees against my mouth_  
_I am perfectly round_  
_I am watching you.’_

_~_ Suzanne Vega

  
  
There was an ache in his legs.  It had been there a while now, two weeks perhaps, pain without stiffness, not soothed by sleep or hot baths, occasionally stabbing, ever present.

He was tethered, encumbered by the protesting limbs, which refused to glide, to split, to dance the way they had.

And the melodic music, which should have leant grace to his every move, only heightened the contrast of his leadened limbs and he pulled out early, his spin ungainly not tight.

He put his hand down. Well, not so much put it down as hammered his fist into the ice. Another morning, another practice, another waste of everyone’s time.

On a fucking spin!

“Start again!” Yakov ordered. “And this time if you mess up, continue to the next move.”

“What’s the point if I can’t get the opening right?”

“The point?” Yakov’s scowl deepened, the lines so entrenched it was unlikely he’d ever unknit the furrows. “You’d give up in competition, would you? If that’s so, get off my rink.”

 _Your rink?_ Yuri bit into his tongue to stop the response, and halt the curses dying to spill from his lips. Yakov, damn him, was right. He couldn’t give up for the sake of an ache in his thighs.

Or was that his knee?

He straightened up, waited for the music to start once more, and began to weave.

It was the first spin, he decided, that was causing him problems. When he built up a decent amount of speed, he had more control, but this slow, pulsing beat had him swerving as he kept the rotation centred.

He lost it again.

Fuck this.

But instead of giving up, he battled on, the fury at his own inadequacy fuelled by the appearance of two other skaters entering the building. Both were laughing, but both hushed in an instant when Yakov roared.

He gathered pace to execute the first jump. A quad. Yakov had said to try the toe loop, but he kept to a lutz as per the original choreography.  He landed effortlessly, then twisted into a double.

_It’s supposed to be a triple._

After a step sequence and a triple, there was a slow crescendo building, and it was here where he needed to land the next quad. He launched from the forward edge of his blade into the Axel, clasped his arms tight across his chest and forced the rotation.

One spin – _Height’s good._  
Two spin – _got your attention, yet?_  
Three spin – _see it’s easy, Katsudon._  
Four spin – _watch this Victor!_  
And then the half to ensure he landed on the back edge of his skate.

Except he fell.

There was an agonised ‘Ahhhh’ from the sidelines.

He didn’t know how or why as everything had been as it should be (except that damn ache in his legs) but his skate skidded out from under him, his palm flattened on the floor and he was scrambling to get up.

“FUCK THIS!”

“Get up!” Yakov instructed.  “Finish the programme.”

Victor was observing, no longer paddling palms with Katsudon, he’d leant across the barrier, fingers on his chin and eyes narrowed.

_That’s all I need._

Somehow he made it to the end of the programme, another spin, and three more jumps, but he flubbed the salchow quad, and the last combination turned from a quad double to a triple single.

Skating to the side, he picked up energy drink, took the merest of breaths, then skated back to the centre of the ice.

“Again!”

But the music didn’t start up. Victor had joined Yakov, both looking thoughtful.

“That’s enough for the day. Don’t stint on your stretches,” Yakov replied.

“REST! How can I?”

Katsudon had laced on his skates and was warming up. He pushed the gate to the rink open and began to skate, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. Mila tripped in, bag over her shoulder, high pitched and raucous as she teased Georgi about his latest date.

“Play the music again,” Yuri demanded.

Katsudon continued to skate. When he’d first arrived in St Petersburg, he’d flinched at the sound of another yelling match, but now he zoned out, having attuned himself to the tempests squalling around him. (unless he was listening to music.)

 “I have another hour!” Yuri pled. “I don’t need rest. You told me not to give up. You said I couldn’t quit, so why-”

“Yuri,” Victor called. His voice was low but it carried across the ice. “Yuri, come here.”

And still Katsudon skated on, gliding into a shotgun spin.

Yuri glowed as he sped to the side, blades digging into the ice, spraying Victor and Yakov with its shards.

“What!” he huffed. “Favouring Katsudon isn’t fair. I’m the Champion.”

Victor reached out to him, laying his hand on Yuri’s arm, and his eyes, which always appeared to view the world with mockery, had darkened.

“Your legs hurt.”

It wasn’t a question.

Had it been that obvious?

“I overdid practise, that’s all,” Yuri muttered, scowling back at the pair of them.

Yakov moved, called away by Mila, and now he was left with Victor, who was assessing him, tilting his head, as he looked Yuri up and down.

“Growth spurt, I think,” he said, not unsympathetic. “It happened to me at around the same age. It’s bound to put you off-kilter, Yurio.”

“Don’t call me that!”

His smile was pitying. Yuri had never come so close to slapping Victor in all his life.

“I can do this!”

“Not if you over-practise. You can’t risk shin splints, either.” Victor’s eyes drifted, and following his gaze, Yuri watched as Katsudon executed a salchow, grimacing when the back of his hand steadied his landing.

“He flubbed that,” Yuri snapped. “Why don’t you tell the pig to rest?”

Victor’s smile became wintry, and he removed his hand, smoothing down his sweatshirt.  “You need to listen to that music more, Yurio,” he said, an edge biting at his voice. “It’s not only about jumps and spins, but expression. Feel the music. Feel the song! I didn’t choreograph it for an automaton.”

***

Mila found him. He’d not left but pulled a book out of his bag, sat at a table in the changing room and started some work.

“Still studying?” she said from the door.

“What’s it to you, Baba?”

“You’ve not quit schooling then?” she said, calm and not mocking.

“No.” He didn’t add that his Gramps had refused to let him drop his tutor.

“So, you need a hand? Only you’re chewing that pen so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t splintered in your mouth.”

He guessed it wouldn't do any harm to ask. “You know about maths?”

She laughed and wandered in, draping her arm across his shoulders. “Sorry. I did okay with Russian Lit and my languages were fine, but the only figures I was good with were –”

“I don’t want to know about your latest boyfriend,” he yelped and scowled at her.

She smirked. “I was going to say, the only figures I know about are Figure Skating, but now you mention it there’s this Canadian Speed Skater -”

Mila didn’t continue with her story, instead pulling up a chair to sit alongside. “Why are you sticking around? He’s not going to let you back on the ice. Not today.”

_Had it been that obvious?_

Ignoring her, he went back to his work, screwing up his face as he tried to work out the next calculation. Algebra, fucking algebra, why did he need that? What fucking use was algebra gonna be as he fought to retain his crown?

“I can give you a lift back,” Mila offered. “I’m almost done.”

“I’m going to see Gramps,” he lied. “I’ll wait for the bus.”

“He’s here, not in Moscow?”

“No, I’m taking a nine hour train journey,” he said sarcastically.

Mila raised her eyebrows and he could tell her patience was at snapping point, her lips thinning, and hand itching to slap him.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “He’s visiting friends, that’s why he’s here.”

“Okay.”She sucked in her cheeks, her expression haughty, then gave him the glimmer of a smile. “I can still take you there if you want.”

“I’m fine. Bus is regular.”

“’Kay, if you’re sure.”

She didn’t leave, instead pulling her phone out of her hoodie pocket, and began to tap.

“Do you mind?”

“What?”

“I’m trying to concentrate and all you can do is make a noise with that phone.”

“I’m tapping a few keys and it’s on mute!” Mila protested, but then she sighed. “C’mon, why don’t you tell me what’s really bugging you?”

 _I can’t spin,_ he thought miserably. _My jumps are off and -_

“It’s the fucking song,” he snarled. “Makes no fucking sense. Victor only chose it to sabotage me.”

“Yeah, ‘cause he’s that manipulative,” Mila said, and barked a laugh at him. “Grow up, Yurio.”

“It’s shit.”

“Music’s great. You were happy enough when you first heard it.”

“But Yakov’s insisting on using the lyrics, too. And it’s crap. Makes no fuck -”

“Sense, yeah, I get it.” She looked a little more conciliatory, and began to tapping on her phone again.

“Thanks for your help,” he grumbled.

“I am helping,” she retorted. Her fingers flicked onto something on the screen and then she turned it to face him. “This it?”

Scrutinising, he nodded. Although he could speak English well enough, reading it was a different matter, but even he had no difficulty. “It’s dumb.”

“Huh? Really.” And she sounded astonished. “I think it’s kinda cool. Especially with the music.”

“It’s a fucking stupid song about being a ball, or thinking you’re an eye.”

“No...”She trailed off and re-examined the words, her eyes intense and a purse to her lips as she perused. “It’s about being vulnerable.”

“Bullshit!”

Mila sighed and ignored the glare that sent most people hightailing it over the hills, and leant back in the chair, propping it on two legs instead of four. “Ah, well, if you don’t want my help, but I think it’s beautiful.”

Vulnerable? He was the Grand Prix champion and needed something to rock everyone’s world, what the fuck was Victor thinking?  

_Unless it’s a deliberate attempt to throw me off._

***

Deciding that he might as well give some truth to the lie he’d told Mila, Yuri called his Gramps saying he was coming over.

“I’m full of cold. All that damn travelling,” Gramps complained, sounding husky, then as if to underline his words, he let out an explosive sneeze. “Leave it ‘til next week, Yurotchka.”

“I could bring you soup or something,” Yuri replied, feeling he should offer. But he didn’t want to catch cold, not something else that would put him off his stride.

“My friends are good people,” his grandfather rasped, and started to cough. “Madam Sorokina’s made me a lot of soup. Now let me get back to sleep. You work hard and do what your coach tells you. And Victor – listen to him. He’s a good boy.”

And then he hung up, and Yuri was left alone with only his phone and a page of algebraic equations that looked more incomprehensible than ever.

It was useless. He could stare at them some more, scribbling out any old answer knowing he’d fail, or else he could sit and stare at the wall.

What he wanted to do was skate and nail his routine. Or at the very least work out what was wrong.

Growth spurt?

Really?

Was it that noticeable?

Four. Five centimetres. Did it make that much difference?

He’d known his body would change. Now sixteen, he’d expected two years, perhaps, where he’d have to adjust. But he’d bargained on his control to be absolute, his body succumbing to his will, not he to its whims.

_A different centre of gravity, that’s all, and not something I can solve sitting around doing fucking algebra!_

But as he got up, determined to storm his way back onto the rink, to demand his lost hour, a sudden sharpness jabbed into his calf.  And although he knew he could walk it off, he was wincing just as Yuuri clattered and chattered in.

“Hey, Yurio! You’re still here then?  Oh, you okay? What’s wrong? Banged your knee, have you?”

“I’m fine. Have you finished? It’s early.”

“Yeah, for today. I’m still tired from the flight, so I don’t want to push it first day back.”  Yuuri continued to stretch his arms, his head looking towards the showers. “Phichit sends his love, by the way.”

It would have been churlish to say nothing. So he kept silent.

Yuuri, however, didn’t register the slight. “Chris visited too. It was fun. Phichit’s got this crazy idea about an ice show in Thailand. I mean, it sounded crazy at first, but when he talks about it, you get these wonderful colours and images flashing through your mind.”

“Do I look interested?” Yuri snarled.

“Not in the slightest,” came the cheery reply. “But then I’m not very good at describing, so I’ve probably made it sound incredibly dull.” He pulled off his training top, then picked up a towel and a wash bag. “I’m going to shower, then go back and walk Makkachin while Victor practises. Wanna come with me?”

And for some insane reason, a yes came out of his mouth instead of the usual refusal.

***

Yuri had been to Victor’s apartment several times since Yuuri had moved in, but every time he stepped through the door, he was always struck by the difference between then and now. Single Victor had kept it tidy. He’d not had many possessions, living stark and with nothing that could trap dust. His one indulgence – Makkachin – whose toys, bowl and bed had still been neat and clean and not cluttering up the space.

It wasn’t that Yuuri was particularly messy, Yuri thought, but he had ‘stuff’. Ornaments on windowsills, photographs on a pinboard, books unarranged and haphazard  on shelves. And Makkachin’s bed had another cushion.

Before Victor looked as if he graced the pages of an interior design magazine. Now they lived in a home. And no matter how cold it was outside in St. Petersburg, it felt warm as soon as he arrived.

“Hey boy!”

Makkachin scurried up to them, accepting a hug from Yuuri before wagging his tail as he sniffed Yuri’s pocket.

“He thinks you’ve bought a treat.”

“I’ve got nothing,” Yuri replied. “Daft dog, you’ll have to sniff somewhere else.”

Makkachin gave up, wandered back to his food bowl, took a last chomp and then flopped down on the floor.

“No, we’re going for a walk, you lazy hound.”

A whine and a snuffle huffed towards them, Makkachin closed his eyes, studiously ignoring the pair of them.

“Dumb dog don’t want to go,” Yuri muttered. He plunged his hands into his pockets, wondering whether to leave now the purpose for being here had gone, but then he heard the sound of the tap and a kettle being filled.

“Drink first? Then we’ll go. Maybe we can walk Makkachin to the rink.”

Yuri agreed because he couldn’t think of an excuse. Besides, Yuuri was reasonable company. He didn’t pry like Mila, or boss him like Victor. He might ask questions, but he didn’t probe for answers.

“Sorry we missed your birthday,” Yuuri was saying. “Did you have fun?”

“Gramps is here. He made a cake.”

 _And half the neighbours came round to pinch my cheeks,_ he didn’t add, still smarting at the memory.

“How is he?”

“Fine.” Pulling out his phone, giving himself an excuse not to answer more questions, he grimaced when he saw the battery had died.  Dammit. “Yuuko, Takeshi and the triplets sent me a gift,” he said, thinking of the tiger slippers that had made him laugh.

“Ahh, that’s nice. Sorry, I didn’t ask, just made coffee. Would you rather have tea?”

“Coffee’s fine,” he muttered, reaching for the sugar and cream. 

“We’ve got you something, too, but I better wait for Victor. He gets so excited buying presents.”

“Sure.”  Was he supposed to thank him now? For something he hadn’t got yet?

“He bought Chris some Muay-Thai kickboxing shorts for _his_ birthday, then some for himself. I left them both by the pool practising one afternoon and went off with Phichit to see the temple.” Yuuri was smiling, more to himself than Yuri.

Shuddering at the thought of Giacometti showing off his high kicks, Yuri slurped his coffee. It was hot, scalding his throat despite the cream he’d added, and his eyes watered as he struggled not to cough.

“Hey, did you hear from Otabek-kun?” Yuuri asked. “Wasn’t he going to visit?”

“Couldn’t make it,” he rasped.

“Oh ...” Yuuri gnawed his lip. “Um ... any reason?”

_We’re not fucking talking!_

He shrugged. “Money. Practise. He’s busy. Not all of us can afford holidays.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Yuuri sipped his coffee. It was black and yet he didn’t seem to find it too hot. Maybe all those years living in a hot tub had turned his tongue to leather.  “Only I thought Otabek-kun–”

“What?” Yuri glowered, praying Katsudon would just shut the fuck up right now because he didn’t want to go into this. Not with him. Not with anyone. Not ever.

But Yuuri wasn’t listening.“- was going to come here and look -”

“It’s Otabek Altin!” Yuri interrupted.. “Not Otabek-kun, or san or chan or whatever you wanna say. He’s from Kazakhstan not Japan!”

At his shrill voice, Makkachin barked, roused from his sleep (real or pretend, Yuri wasn’t sure) and sat up to place a reproachful paw on Yuri’s leg.

“Get off me, you dumb mutt!” he yelled, wincing at the rasp and crack in his voice.

Yuuri reached over and pulled him away by the scruff of his neck. “It’s okay, boy. Go to your basket and sleep.”

But Makkachin curled himself around Yuuri’s feet and wouldn’t budge.

“It’s meant affectionately, you know,” Yuuri murmured, his hand on Makkachin’s head, rubbing behind his ears. “Like Vitya ... and ... uh ... Katsudon.”

Yuri looked down at his knees, wishing he had his hood over his face so there was no chance Yuuri would mistake his flaming face for anything other than the apartment being too warm. Or the damn coffee, which was still hot, and that was why he couldn’t speak without his fricking voice cracking!

“Anyway, I’m sorry he didn’t come and visit,” Yuuri continued, his voice papering over the awkwardness. “It would have been nice for you.”

It was another thing he’d learnt since last year, the art of ignoring spats of temper.

“On the upside, you’ll have more to talk about at the next comp, though, won’t you?” Yuuri said, putting on a sunshine bright voice.

It was the second time that day Yuri had wanted to hit someone. The second time apart from wanting to punch himself, and he would have yelled some more, Makkachin or not, but just then Yuuri’s phone buzzed, vibrating across the table.

“Hi! You’ve finished already?” His face which had lit up immediately, stalled, looking puzzled.

“Yes, he’s here. We were going to take Makkachin for a walk but –”

...

“What?”

...

“Where?”

...

“Okay. No, it’s fine, I can find it.”

He clicked the phone off, chewed his lip and turned immediately to Yuri.

“Yurio,” he began, sounding soft.

“I gotta leave, right? That’s okay.”

“No, no, sit. It’s ... uh ...”

Why was he flustered? Why had Katsudon gone so red? “Huh?”

“It’s your g-grandfather,” he babbled. “A Madam Sorokina’s been trying to get hold of you. She found Yakov’s number in your granddad’s phone.”

“What? Why? What’s happened?”

“Your Grandfather’s been admitted to hospital. He’s suffering from ... uh...” He fumbled for the word, saying something in Japanese, then shaking his head. “His chest.”

“HEART!”  Yuri’s own heart leapt and clogged at his throat and he grappled for breath and words and any sense that none of this was real.

“No, _no_ , um ...” Yuuri’s hands moved up and down his own chest, clenching and unclenching his fists as he struggled to think and began to gabble,  “Sorry, sorry, Victor said something in Russian, but I didn’t understand, and he didn’t know the word in English and certainly not Japanese. But it’s ... um ... breathing problems. Lungs!” he finally spluttered out, slamming his palm against his head.  Reaching across to a dish on the counter, he picked up some car keys, before finally taking a breath. “Come on, I’ll take you there now.”

 


	2. lost inside your pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri's convinced he's alone, but his friends rally round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Eilidh who is amazing.

Pneumonia.

That’s what the doctor told him.

‘Inflammation of the lungs, not uncommon in the elderly.’

Since when had Gramps become ‘the elderly’?

“He smokes, yes?”

Yuri nodded.

“That won’t help,” the doctor said bluntly, looking not at Yuri but at Victor.

“So ... um ... what are they doing?” Yuuri whispered in English, nudging Victor to ask the question.

Victor duly obliged. “And you’re treating him with what?”

“Antibiotics in case it’s bacterial and oxygen therapy,” the doctor replied.

_He sounds bored,_ Yuri thought, his fingers gripping his knees.  _Case not exciting enough, huh?_

“Are there any other underlying health conditions that we should be aware of?”

Again, the doctor was addressing his questions to Victor, but at least this time Victor didn’t answer.

“He’s never ill,” Yuri rasped. “He’s strong. And he doesn’t smoke that much, not since Grandma died.”

And at last, the doctor appeared to register that he wasn’t only talking to ‘Victor Nikiforov’, and he replied directly to Yuri. “That’s good, then.”

“Can we see him?” Yuuri’s Russian was faltering, but the question was clear.

“We don’t encourage visits,” the doctor said, as if he were reciting something from a textbook. “The welfare of the patient is our utmost concern and visitors only –”

“But you _can_ make an exception in this case.” Although Victor’s voice was honeyed, there was a touch of vinegar in his words.

The doctor gulped, inclining his head. “Family only, wear a mask and make sure you wash your hands,” he replied, not unkindly, and even though it was clear he was pushed for time, he reached across to clasp Yuri’s shoulder. “Don’t be scared. There’s a machine helping him breathe, but it looks worse than it is.”

Yuri wrenched away. I’m sixteen not six he wanted to say, but the doctor was already stepping down the corridor, off to his next patient.

Someone slipped a hand in his. Not the thin fingers of Victor, but a smaller hand, with a warm cushion on the thumb as he squeezed.

 “It was just a cold,” Yuri muttered. “He said it was a cold, and I wasn’t to go over.”

“This isn’t your fault,” Yuuri replied.

Victor was shuffling his feet, eyes flicking around the corridor. Bored already, probably.

“You can go. I’m fine now. Thank you for the lift,” Yuri mumbled.

Victor blinked, but to Yuri’s surprise he didn’t leap at the opportunity, instead, he guided them all towards the hard plastic chairs lined up against the wall, then made noises about getting coffee.

“How about we find you a mask and somewhere to wash up?” Yuuri whispered.

The lump in Yuri’s throat stopped him saying anything other than thanks, and he looked at the floor, unwilling to let Yuuri see his face, but another squeeze of his hand threatened to cause another tear to spill.

***

What Yuri was most shocked at when he saw the old man, was not the machine, or the drip in his arm, or the sound of laboured breathing, but how small his Grandfather looked.

Vulnerable.

Surrounded by a panoply of medical apparatus, and in a hard white bed, his stillness only lent to that air of insignificance. The bear of a man was a mouse struggling to breathe.

“Hey, Gramps,” he tried.

Unable to speak because of the mask, his granddad made a waving motion with his fingers, tiny and feeble, but Yuri got the message and sat on the chair provided.

His hand motion changed, running the edge of his palm across his sheet. Yuri stared, unsure what he was trying to say.

_A snake? Is he hallucinating?_

But then his hand rose off the bed, furled then landed before continuing its movement.

“Oh, skating?”

His Gramps nodded.

_Fuck, how can I tell him?_ “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. Good practise today.”

Gramps' finger and thumb curled into an ‘O’ and although it could have meant anything, Yuri understood and rubbed at his nose. “Yeah, I’m gonna bring home another gold.”

The hand went still, and Yuri’s breath stopped in his chest, but his granddad’s chest was rising and falling and the machine to his left showed steady spikes as it beeped the trail of his heartbeat.

It was, perhaps, an hour later when Yuri left his bedside. A nurse had wandered in, taking his grandfather’s stats, and flicking at the drip bag. Telling him she’d be a while, she encouraged Yuri to stretch his legs in such a kind way, he found himself standing up and walking to the door almost before the thought of protesting had formed in his brain.

To his surprise, Victor was still there and now Yuri looked at him properly, he saw he was still in his practise kit –shabby grey sweater and grey sweatpants - only the camel-coloured ‘Coach’ coat over his arm indicating his previous career interlude.

“Yuuri’s gone back,” he explained. “We figured I was more use as his Russian is ... uh ...”

“Pretty crap,” Yuri finished. He shrugged. “You don’t have to stay.”

“He’s going to walk Makkachin  then return with a change of clothes for me,” Victor was saying, “and he’s bringing some food in case you’re hungry. And your phone. Apparently you left it in the apartment so he’s charging it for you.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Yuri repeated, wondering if Victor had heard anything he’d said at all.

But Victor dismissed the words with a wave of his hand and a flick of his hair. “There’s no question of leaving you alone, Yurio.”

***

And there was, apparently, no question of letting Yuri stay overnight at the hospital.  Not even Victor in his finest ‘coach’ clothes, or his wink at the hospital manager could inveigle a room out of the hospital, and although he yelled that he’d curl up in a chair, Madam Baranovskaya threatened to drag him home by his ear if he didn’t comply.

“I’m not staying with you,” he said struggling in her grasp. “It’s too far from the hospital. I can’t ... let me stay here, or in the car, or in a hotel. I’m good for it. I can pay.”

“Don’t worry,” Victor said, speaking directly to Yuri. “You can stay with us. We’re the closest.”

He saw Madam Baranovskaya’s tiny nod, the implicit acceptance of the plan and knew it was useless to argue. If he insisted on staying, then none of them would leave, and that way there’d be nowhere for him to escape. At least at Victor’s (and Yuuri’s, he supposed it was now) he’d have a room to shut himself in. So he got to his feet, took one last look through the door window at his Gramps (slow breathing. Machine beeping steadily.  New drip attached) and allowed himself to be towed away.

 

“He’s in the best place,” Yuuri said later.

He placed a bowl of soup in front of Yuri, hot and steaming, thick soup made with potatoes and not the thin stuff Yuuri usually slurped. And it smelt good, reminding Yuri that despite the snacks and coffee at the hospital, he’d barely eaten since breakfast.

“And the doctor looked as if he knew what he was doing,” Yuuri persisted.

“Of course he did.” Victor breezed in, helped himself to soup and began to butter some rye bread, placing a plate of it in the middle of the table. He tore at a slice, dipping it in his soup before eating.  “Eat up, Yurio.”

“And we can see him tomorrow. I’ll take you after practise,” Yuuri said. “We can easily rejig schedules. Mila said she’d help, too. And I’m sure Georgi will switch if we ask –”

“I’m not practising!” Yuri dropped his spoon, clattering it on the table. “I’m only not at the hospital because you forced me here. You can’t force me to skate. I’ll get the bus tomorrow and-”

“Yurio.”

“Don’t call me that!” he spat to Victor.

“Yuri,” Victor tried again.

“I’m not skating.”

“You don’t have to,” Victor said gently, and reaching across the table, he tried to cup Yuri’s hand, settling instead for a fingertip touch as Yuri pulled away. “No one is going to force you to do anything.”

“But you might find it helps,” Yuuri added, not flinching when Yuri scowled. “Or it might not. Totally up to you.”

He didn’t speak for the rest of the meal. Not that Victor found this at all awkward as he kept up the small talk, regaling both of them with anecdotes from his day, how Mila been yelled at by Yakov for checking her Instagram instead of stretching, and Georgi had been complaining about his laces.

“He was muttering dark thoughts about ice-hockey players stealing them, convinced it’s a conspiracy to stop him competing,” he told them, his voice light and amused.

Yuuri’s laugh petered out when Yuri didn’t join in.

And neither of them tried to persuade him to join them watching TV, when he declared he’d go to bed.

Someone, probably Yuuri, had laid out a clean pair of pyjamas on the pillow and had folded up a towel on the edge of the bed.

Yuri stood in the centre of the room stared at the walls, perfect white, and no posters, just shelves that seemed to be the repository for Victor’s old awards. There was nothing of Yuuri here, it was like the room had been sealed off, its door a portal into the past.  Picking up one photo, he recognised a young Victor, his hair shoulder length, and hugging Makkachin, who was wearing a gold medal as a collar.

Eleven or twelve years old, Yuri decided. European Junior Champion, maybe?

He looked so young there, so small, his body thin, his frame gawky, and yet he’d glided across the ice with the maturity of one much older. A prodigy, he’d been called. Much as Yuri was now. Only Makkachin hadn’t changed.

As if on cue, the door to his bedroom creaked open and in he padded. He sniffed Yuri’s hand, decided he was harmless as he didn’t growl, then gave him a lick.

“Dumb dog,” Yuri mumbled, but he crouched on the carpet, put his arms around Makkachin and buried his face in his soft fur.

 

Later, when he’d made it into the bed, Makkachin curled around him, Yuri checked his phone. His absence on social media had been noted, several of his fans jumping to wild conclusions, especially after one had seen him in the hospital car park. Convinced he’d injured himself, they pled for information, not reassured at all by someone’s (a fan called Angel4Yuri) sly snap of him outside Victor’s apartment.

**yur1gurl:** was he limping?  
**Russ1anPunk** : when was this taken?  
**YuRiIsMiNe:** maybe he’s hurt his arm.  
**yur1gurl:** How is that any better? **@YuRiIsMiNe**  
**YuRiIsMiNe:** at least he can still jump!!!! @ **yur1gurl  
yur1gurl:** He still uses his arms when he jumps. Ru dumb!!! **@YuRiIsMiNe**?  
**Russ1anPunk:** how do we know this was taken today?  
**Angel4Yuri:** **@ Russ1anPunk** u sayin im lyin?  
**Russ1anPunk** : this could have been taken last year not today  
**Angel4Yuri:** Yuri Ks there.  
**YuRiIsMiNe** :  No, im not dumb but he can still skate with a bad arm. and it doesn’t look lyk its bandaged  
**yur1gurl:** hes waring a jacket. How cn u tell?

The messages continued, four girls joined by others debating his supposed injury down to the last minutiae.  Yuri flicked through, unable to respond, unable to feel much of anything, not even the usual irritation, until finally he zoned in on one.

**mila.babacheva:** guys calm down, Yurio’s not injured.  
**YuRiIsMiNe:** How do you know? And don’t call him Yurio, he doesn’t like it. **@mila.babacheva**  
**Angel4Yuri:** smh lmfao U have no idea who that is, do you @ **YuRiIsMiNe**  
THANK YOUUUUU **@mila.babacheva**. ur queeeeen! can u tell us y he was there?

Mila hadn’t responded, and the speculation continued, some saying maybe it was Victor who was injured, or even Yuuri K.

There were no other messages from anyone he knew.

No one at all.

And it didn’t help to know that most people would be asleep, and one certain person only reluctantly used SNS; it was midnight in St. Petersburg and Yuri Plisetsky had never felt more alone.

***

Fretting caused a restless night, leading to him oversleeping. Yuri had meant to wake early and slip out by himself to the hospital, but he heard a clink of bowls, and then a gentle flump as Makkachin slithered off the bed and swished out to the kitchen.

Someone tapped on his door. He considered curling up with a pillow over his head, but that would only be delaying the inevitable, so instead he got up and creaked the door open a touch.

It was Yuuri. Obviously, it was Yuuri because Victor would have flung open the door and demanded his presence.

“What do you like for breakfast?” he asked. “Victor makes real good _syrniki –_ “ He dropped the single word of Russian into his sentence, reverting to English for the rest of the menu “- or if you’d rather have pancakes and ... uh ... that sausage thing.”

“Not hungry,” Yuri muttered. He stared out of the window, at the greying sky with no blue, and waited for Yuuri to leave.

But he didn’t.

“You should eat something.”

“Coffee’s fine. I can grab something on the way to the hospital.”

“Well, have something here instead and take it with you. I can make it while you shower and ... uh ... get changed.”

Clothes?  Shit, he didn’t have any save for his training kit from yesterday.

“I don’t have time, I need to go back to my room and grab some things. Unless I could borrow ... uh ... sorry.” He could feel his face flushing, hating the fact he was reliant on Yuuri’s good nature.

But Yuuri laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t worry Mila-kun swung by your place and brought some things over earlier. So, breakfast, yes?”

He grudgingly agreed, then aware he was being churlish he stumbled over an apology, yet Yuuri smiled back and gave his arm a squeeze.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, Victor was unusually solemn, his only conversation chiding Makkachin, who was begging for scraps from the table. Yuri sat down, the borrowed bathrobe wrapped tight around his waist, but hanging of one shoulder, and sipped at the coffee. He added more sugar, cream as well, and then almost absentmindedly picked up a slice of bread and butter. 

“Try the jam,” Victor suggested. “We have several flavours.”

“I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“Good, but you need to keep your energy levels up,” Victor replied, his tone implying a steamroller was about to be launched. “Even if you’re _not_ going to the rink today.”

“I’m not,” Yuri insisted.

“Do you have a ballet class? Or your tutor?”

“I’m not going to them either.”

“I know.” Victor didn’t look at all perturbed by Yuri’s outburst, helping himself to bread and spreading thick with strawberry jam. “But you should cancel formally. It’s only polite.”

Polite was the last thing Yuri felt like being. It wasn’t in his vocabulary. Respect, yes, but why did that always have to come with this need to hold his tongue, to watch his words, to kow-tow to people just because they were older.

“I’ll call them, then set off,” he muttered. “You don’t need to come with me. I can get the bus.”

“Good luck with that,” Victor mused. “Your angels are out in force. Poor Yuuri was doorstepped when he went out for a run this morning.”

“Fuck, why won’t they leave me alone?”

“They think you’re injured,” Victor replied. “Naturally they’re distraught.” He sounded calm, sensible, and surprisingly mature for Victor. “There’s a box of chocolates on the table from one of them, and a card from another.”

“Did you tell them anything?” Yuri asked, ignoring Victor and turning his attention to Yuuri.

“Um ... no ... should I have? Only, I was scared of saying the wrong thing as my Russian’s not great.”

“I don’t want them knowing about Granddad,” Yuri replied, and sniffed. “They’ll turn up at the hospital and bug the doctors. Or try and break into his room.”

“Then, I suggest a subterfuge. Come with us to the rink. Pretend you’re going to ballet and then sneak away to the hospital. One of us will get you there,” Victor said.

He shrugged, then pulled the bathrobe up over his shoulders. He felt a little lighter in himself with Victor’s plan, and began to chew the bread. “Sure.”

As far as it went, the plan worked well. Victor and Yuuri flanked him out of the apartment, Victor a step ahead, ploughing a way through but with such easy grace and so many smiles, Yuri’s Angels barely had any reason to suspect they were being slighted. He had this effect on people, Yuri saw, one that made them feel special, and who were they to know from this briefest of encounters that he’d have forgotten them all as soon as he made it to the ice.

“That girl asked for my autograph,” Yuuri whispered, a look of shock on his face.

“You’re a world class skater with a silver medal,” Victor said, laughing as he stretched across to caress Yuuri’s cheek. “You’ve been asked before, haven’t you?”

“Yes, b-but not _there!”_

Yuri registered the confusion in Victor’s expression and the tremor in Yuuri’s voice and was hard pushed not to snort his disdain. “She probably wanted to tattoo it on her chest,” he retorted.

“Of my name!”

“Well, yeah, I presume she thought you’d write it in Japanese and that’d look cool. Next time write pork-cutlet bowl – she won’t know the difference.”

He was bitching, he knew, and he shouldn’t be because the couple in the front seats of the car were the ones who’d put themselves out the most for him. Somewhere in his head, he could hear his Grandfather scolding him, but he lowered himself further into his hoodie and switched on his music.

And neither of them reacted, apart from a checking glance to each other.

There was a gaggle of girls at the entrance to the rink. It was dumb to think they’d give up the chase so quickly, although it was entirely possible this was a different group hedging their bets as to where he’d next appear. Inwardly cursing for not checking his sites, he wondered what their theories were now.

Victor pulled up out the front. “They need to see you here, Yurio,” he soothed, waiting for them both to get out. “They’ll also recognise my car, so maybe we need to find another.”

He’s fucking enjoying this, Yuri seethed, and so caught up in outrage, he banged his knee on the door handle on his way out.

“IT’S HIS KNEE!” a girl shrieked. “LOOK HE’S RUBBING IT!”

“Oh shit!”

“HE’S IN PAIN! YUUUURRRRRRIIIIIIII!”

“Don’t react,” Yuuri whispered, and catching his arm he tugged him inside the building. “Look, I know Victor always says you shouldn’t ignore fans, and he’s sort of right– even if it is his way and not right for everyone – but you shouldn’t get angry with them.”

“They’re harassing me!” he yelled, feeling hot and cold and furious because the knock on his knee was still smarting and -

“They like you and they’ll forgive you more or less anything, Yurio, but I wouldn’t push it.”

“It’s creepy.”

“Mmm, I guess.”  Yuuri glanced back through the doors, a small smile on his face. Although whether he was wistful, or amused at the attention it was hard to tell. “But at least this way, they’re not pestering your Grandfather.”

 

 Yakov was rinkside, supervising Mila when they bundled through the door.  And Yuri wasn’t sure why he was here, and started to feel as paranoid as Georgi regarding conspiracies when he saw not only Madam Baranovskaya but his tutor, glasses slipping down his nose and taking fright as he listened to Mila yelling her frustration when she missed a jump.

But Lilia, on seeing him, uncrossed her arms and held them out to him. A nudge from Yuuri propelled him into them, and he was given a stiff sort of hug, one that he was surprisingly grateful for.

“Be brave, Yurochka.”

“I can’t come to ballet,” was all he could reply. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but make sure you keep up your exercises. Even if you’re in the hospital, you can keep limber.”

“Huh?”

“Use the wall as a bar,” she said, and disentangling one arm, she placed her palm flat against the wall and began to bob down. “Or the chair. You must stay loose, Yuri. Now is not the time to stiffen up, you hear me.”

“I’ve brought you some work,” his tutor said hesitantly, “and don’t worry about the maths. I won’t ask for it back yet.”

“Great.” He chewed his lip, and muttered to Yuuri, “Can I go now?”

Before Yuuri could answer, Victor breezed in, his coat over his arm, and skates out of his bag, calling out a ‘hellooo’ to everyone and trailed by a scowling Georgi, who managed to look just as fierce without his makeup.

“Yurio, we have a plan,” Victor cried out. “Georgi will lend someone his car while he practises.”

“No ... that’s not what I said, Victor. I don’t mind if it’s you or –”

A whoop from the ice dragged everyone’s attention to the rink and Mila, who’d landed her triple combination and apparently with some aplomb as even Yakov was smiling. She swooshed across the ice, her face sparkling, and a bright smile, which she hurriedly dimmed on seeing Yuri.

“Stretch!” Yakov yelled at her.

“I know,” she retorted. “I’ve been skating for over ten years. Really, he still thinks I’m a novice.” She blew a strand of hair off her face, fanning her face with her hand, then taking a breath she leant over the barrier to hug Yuri. “How are you?”

He squirmed away from her. “Fine.”  What else could he say?  _I’m worried sick and none of you seem to get it? I’m wasting time on chitchat because Victor thinks he has a plan._

“I’m done now, so give me a few minutes and I’ll take you to the hospital.”

“One of us was going to drive him in Georgi’s car.”

“No, no, I said you or me, Victor,” Georgi tried to explain, getting more and more worked up at Victor riding roughshod over his offer.

“I’ve got mine,” Mila interrupted, smiling. “Not sure Georgi wants me in his car, do you, sweetheart?”

“You drive like a madwoman! I’ll take him myself.”

“And your car’s purple, Mila, everyone knows that!” Victor stated, examining his fingernails. “The plan requires him to be incognito!”

_Jeez, he sounds like a spy._

“Hey, I haven’t had an accident in ... uh ... a while.” She screwed up her nose, deferring to Victor like they all did. “I’ll be careful, but it’s my Mom’s car, so no one’s gonna recognise it. Not even the most rabid of my fans.”

No one asked why it was her mom’s car, and Yuri kept the groan to himself as he realised she must have pranged her car again.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she countered, addressing all of them. “It was a deliberate switch. I figured you guys might need me.”

And he wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not, suspected he was putting his life in her hands and her questionable driving ability, but it was either that or wait around for one of the others and he knew he couldn’t take much more of their varying brands of sympathy.

 

Changing  jackets with Yuuri, he slunk out the back way, waited by the door for Mila, and then legged it to the car. She opened the back door, telling him to lie down so he wouldn’t be spotted, and then revved up the engine and sped for the open road.

 “Stay down, Yurio! There’s a couple of Angels on the left,” she ordered, then with a twist of her hand, she pulled down the peak of her hat down over her face.

“This isn’t a movie!” he yelled as he fell off the back seat when she swerved violently.

At that checked over her shoulder. “Sorry.  I was getting too into it. It’s the dancer in me, always trying to express.”  She grinned again, then faltered, the car slowed to a more moderate pace. “Not the time or place for drama, I guess.”

He looked away, peering up and out of the window. At the break in the clouds as the sun poured through. Was that a good sign? Or was he grasping at anything to make him feel better? Shuffling onto the seat, he slouched back, trying not to think when a thought occurred. It entered his brain with a flip of wings, buzzing to his consciousness, but once there he realised it was something that had nagged at him since last night.

 “Where are we going?”

“The hospital.” He saw her frowning in the mirror.

“But it’s not this way. It’s much closer to the rink.”

“He’s not in the state hospital, Yurio,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

“What?”

“He’s in a private one. Didn’t you know? It’s the one the Ice Federation uses.”

“But that’s ...” He slumped back, the greater part of him relieved that his Gramps was in good hands, but a small part of him horrified. _I can’t afford that, and Gramps doesn’t have savings - not now._

“The good thing is that you’ll be able to visit when you want,” Mila said gently. “Remember when Irina broke her foot and was in traction? I was able to see her all the time.”

Irina? He wracked his brain, but it was sluggish today, and it took him a while to picture the girl. Blonde, sharp features giving the appearance of a toughness she hadn’t been able to muster. Seven years older, she’d taken the Russian skating world by storm at fourteen, sweeping everyone aside.

“Doe she still skate?” he asked.

“Teaches and performs at ice festivals,” Mila replied. “Her ankle was never as strong after the accident, but she tours a fair bit.”

But she’d been in decline long before the accident, her potential never quite living up to the early promise.

Mila turned off a few minutes later, slowing again as she reached the hospital car park. “I can’t see anyone here, but maybe keep your hood up,” she said, and started to twist her hair up, pushing it under her hat.

“You don’t have to stay,” he muttered. “I’m fine by myself.”

“Nah.” She sniffed, then flashed him a smile as she opened her car door. “I’ll hang around for a bit. Got nothing else to do. And maybe we can listen to your music again. Or you could listen to mine and tell me what you think I’m doing wrong.”

Yuri opened his mouth to tell her to go, but as he got out the car, the ache in one leg took hold again and he pressed his lips together to stop from grimacing.

“You okay?”

“Cramp,” he muttered, and rubbed at his calf.

“K.” She looked from side to side, then gave him a half smile. “Coast is clear. C’mon, let’s go and see how your Granddad is today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can agree that Makkachin's the MVP.


	3. thrown against the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri discovers there are worse things than waiting.

The worst thing about hospitals, Yuri decided, was the waiting.

No one would tell him anything. It didn’t help having Mila there, even with her fluttery eyelash charm. The doctor who’d been on call the day before wasn’t around, and all anyone would say was that his Gramps was ‘doing as well as could be expected!’ 

But what was expected? He tried to ask, but there was a flurry of hands when he questioned and then a series of shaking heads when he asked if he could sit by his bedside.

“I was allowed to yesterday!”

The nurse sighed, looking at him with a degree of what he thought was pity, and still refused.  “He needs rest.”

“What do you think I’m going to do?  Drag him out to the rink!”

The nurse stared at him, curiosity in her eyes as if she were trying to place him, but continued to shake her head. “The hospital isn’t the right place for you,” she said, her eyes drifting to Mila. “Why don’t you go home and we’ll call you if there’s any change.”

There was a silence, one in which Yuri ached to speak, to shout and yell and demand his own way, but Mila’s hand had graced his shoulder, and it was her more measured tones that breached the quiet. “We’ll stay while someone sorts out when Yuri can sit with his Granddad,” she replied firmly, and Yuri just knew she’d fixed the nurse with her fiercest competitor stare.

So they sat on the hard plastic chairs in the corridor, Yuri refusing to go to the waiting room in case they were forgotten, and Mila sat with him, not huffing impatiently or pouting petulantly, offering the occasional conversation starter but respecting when he answered with a shake of his head.

Waiting was the worst, he thought again. And with no news and no one to rescue either of them from the gloom, tedium began to set in. Yuri let out a sigh, which turned to a groan, and Mila stopped picking at her nail varnish.

“Do you have your phone?” she asked.

“Yeah but ...” He trailed off, pointing to the sign on the wall asking that all phones be switched off.

“MP3 player, then? We can listen, I’m sure.”

He handed it over without asking why.  Mira’s hand stilled on his, her fingers pushing something into his palm. He felt the small plastic earphone – one, not two – and glanced up at her. “What?”

“Your song. Let’s listen to it, eh?”

“I’m not – I can’t ...”

“Sure you can. I’m not saying it’ll take your mind off things. Not much will do that, and maybe it shouldn’t, but it’s gotta be better than brooding. And, well, your Granddad would hate to think you’re doing nothing, wouldn’t he?”  She gave him half a smile, wry not showing any teeth. “Or we could practise our ballet moves in the corridor, Lilia would approve! Unless you’d rather do some maths...”

He snorted, but accepting her logic (and when it came down to it, doing nothing was making him twitchy) he took the earphone from her.

_‘Today I am a small blue thing  
Like a marble or an eye.’_

Curl down into the opening spin.

_‘With my knee against my mouth  
I am perfectly round.’_

Sit spin, leg extended.

_‘I am watching you.’_

He furrowed his brow to think. _Gramps watches from the sidelines, is that my hook into this?_

_Or is it me watching? Am I viewing the audience?_

_Or another skater –_ He stiffened at the recollection.

‘It’s about being vulnerable,’ Mila had said. He glanced sideways, she had her eyes closed, but her hand was smoothing the rhythm on her thigh.

_‘I am cold against your skin,  
I am perfectly reflected.’_

As if he’d stumbled on the ice, Yuri scrambled to get back on track. A combination jump here. Quad and double.

_‘I am lost inside your pocket’_

_Granddad’s thick coat? Warm when he picked me up from the lake._

_‘I am lost  
Against your fingers.’_

_Holding hands. Warm again._

He jerked out of his reverie, his hand splayed, fingers stiff as a different memory swamped his mind. His hoodie thrown over his suit, proof against the cool night, and escaping not from stalking fans, but the entitled fraternity, not wanting the applause, or the sudden friendships and gifts of congratulation from people he barely knew. 

“You are the Prince now, Yuri,” Madam Baranovskaya had hissed. “Shoulders back and smile. Enjoy your time in the sun.”

Jokes and revelry and the endless demands of the golden boy to perform, to dance, to display because now he was ‘theirs’ and wasn’t allowed to duck out of his obligations.

A hand in his and a whisper, “Do you want to leave? I have my bike.”

 

 “What’s the matter?”Mila asked, her voice soft.

“The banq-,” he blurted out, then gasped case he’d said too much. “It’s nothing.”

Mila squeezed his hand, but made no reference. Perhaps she’d not heard him because when she talked again it was about the song and routine but nothing else.

“Victor’s put most of the quads in the first half of the routine. Is that deliberate?”

“Yeah, probably. Katsudon’s are spread evenly!” he spat.

“I guess you could say that Yuuri’s routine has more technical difficulty at the close of the programme, but there’ll be a reason -”

Ripping out the earbud, he stormed to his feet, scowling down at her. “He’s favouring his boyfriend, obviously!”

“Or he doesn’t want your stamina to give out on you so you’re unable to complete,” she leapt in.

“I managed last year, and guess who got Gold at the Grand Prix!”

“Things change, Yurio,” she said, a touch sadly he thought. “Even gold can dull.”

“What the fuck!”

“New campaign, new routines,” she said, more firmly, then patted the seat next to her. “Come on, let’s listen to the rest.”

“No, fuck it!  I want a break. I’m here for my Gramps, not to work out some dumb shitty song Victor’s only choreographed to fuck me up. You’re right, Katsudon has the better routine. It’s even better that the one Victor’s done for himself, that’s how much he fucking loves him and wants everyone else to fall by the wayside, and IT’S NOT FUCKING FAIR!”

“Hey, calm down. He’s favouring no one. God, I wish I had him in my corner.”

“Only ‘cause you, Baba, just fall at his feet and lap up every fucking word of advice he deigns to let slip because you’re as fucking washed up as -”

She grabbed his arm, pulling him down and close to her, eyes flashing furiously. “Don’t you dare!” Her fingers bit into his arm and she opened her mouth to yell again –

But whatever else she’d wanted to say, whatever she’d been about to shout or slap or shake into him was lost as a pounding of footsteps and yells of ‘Crash Team!’ rent the air.

Shouts from the room opposite, shrill and urgent. One room. The room he’d been so focused on, until now.

“Gramps!”

And then Yuri knew that the worst thing about hospitals wasn’t the waiting.

“GRAMPS!”  He shrieked again, and tearing himself away from Mila, he pounded the door. His granddad was surrounded by people, medics crowded so close that all Yuri could see was a tuft of his salt and pepper grey hair, and the ridge in the sheets where they covered his feet.

As the doctor gave his orders, the bedcovers jerked and were still, jerked and were still, jerked and were still.

And Yuri couldn’t breathe, the air from his lungs punched out of him as he clawed the window, urging every atom of oxygen from his body to leave and transfer to the figure in the bed in such desperate need.

“Please,” he whimpered. “Please, Gramps.”

“He’s back! Let’s get him intubated!” The doctor turned, saw Yuri looking through the window and gave him the double thumbs up sign, before returning to his patient.

A sound in his throat threatened to bubble into hysteria. _What’s this, a fucking JJ tribute now?_

Mila’s arms were around him, holding him tight, her voice a mantra of ‘he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay’ making no sense and yet it was everything.

Air tore into him, ripping through his chest, driving into his lungs, too warm as it scorched through to his heart.

“I can’t –” He pushed her away and pounded down the corridor, desperate to escape.

Outside there was fresh air, cold and delicious on his tongue, a sky adrift with white clouds and blue patches. He raised his hands to shield his eyes against the pale yellow sunshine doing its best to brighten the day.

And a seam of girls streaming towards him.

“IT’S YURI! HE _IS_ HERE!”

“Yuri, _Yuri_ , what’s wrong?”

They ran towards him, three of them, varying appearances and heights, but all with the same mindset.

 “Oh fuck no.” He backed off, propelling himself through the double doors, and tripping over his heel, as he lurched away from them seeking refuge, a room or a guardian deity to whisk him into hiding.

But there was no one there. No man with a steed or a bike, willing to rescue him.  No one asking to be a friend.

“HE’S INJURED!” he heard one of them screech.

It was Mila who came to his rescue. Grabbing his arm, she whisked him back down the corridor, taking a quick swift turn to the right and into a bathroom.

“How do they know where I am?” he wailed.

“Never underestimate the obsession of fans. It’s short for fanatic, y’know,” she muttered. “And think yourself lucky that these girls are wholesome. You would not believe the creeps I’ve had to deal with.”

“But I went to the rink.”

“Yeah, but ...”She pulled out her phone, quickly flicking onto Instagram, her lips pursed. “Mmm, there it is. They knew you weren’t there. They’re convinced you’re injured as you’re not practising.”

He was calming now, the thump of his heart slowing as the adrenaline left his body, but the dark dread, the shadow  of why he was here leapt on him like a malevolent panther. “I didn’t imagine it, did I? Gramps is okay?”

“The doc said they’re monitoring him closely,” she said, her voice a little thick now. “But he’s strong as a bear, and fearless, too, like his grandson.”

He sniffed and rubbed at his nose with his sleeve. “Do you think they’ll let me see him?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, and cradled his head against her shoulder.

 

Acute Respiratory Distress – that’s what the doctor called it. A common complication of pneumonia, and one they could treat now he was stabilised.

“Was it a heart attack?” Yuri asked, scared of the words.

“Not exactly. Your grandfather’s heart went into an odd rhythm, so we needed to jump start it.” 

He was allowed ten minutes. Ten minutes where he could sit by his Gramps side, hold his hand and tell him whatever he wanted. But the nurse stayed in the room, affecting not to hear, and he found that too much of an obstacle.

His grandfather no longer had an oxygen mask over his mouth but a tube down his throat. Another tube fed him via his nose.  Less of a human, more of a medical statistic now.

 “Get well soon, Gramps,” Yuri mumbled.

There was a flicker of pressure on his fingers, so brief he could have imagined it, but it gave him hope.

“This hasn’t been much of a trip for you, but once you’re out of here, you can come to practice. And ...” he sniffed, “I made some pirozhki based on your recipe. Yakov and Madam Baranovskaya think they’re good, but I need your opinion ‘cause they don’t taste like yours.”

More pressure on his fingers. His heart leapt to his throat. “Love you,” he rasped, and tried to smile, just in case his Gramps could somehow see.

“He should rest now,” the nurse said, letting her hand drop on Yuri’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go home and let us take care of him?”

She was younger than the nurse from before. Maybe Yuuri’s age, he wasn’t sure, and her dark eyes filled with warmth when he faced her.

“We will call if anything happens,” she assured him.

_But I might not reach him in time._

His heart was like lead in his chest, the airy lightness from moments ago quickly deflating, dull thuds instead of pitter-patters.  There was no way he could leave, not yet, not now, and he wondered how soon it would be before the others dropped away. Mila had to practise, Yuuri and Victor, too, and Yakov could hardly ditch his charges just to sit and keep him company.

_Today I am a small blue thing._

“Sorry,” he muttered as he sat alongside Mila.

“What for?”

“Um, keeping you here... sort of.” He swallowed. “That’s a lie. I’m sorry I said you were washed up.”

She laughed, actually laughed.  The sound was hollow and not at all like her usual giggling chirp. “If you’d told me that a year or two ago, I might have believed you.” She shrugged. “I overreacted, but you kinda touched a nerve.”

“Sorry.”

For all his skating life, Mila had been two or three steps ahead, blazing the trail. A clutch of Junior titles, and gold at her first senior Europeans’, the rest of them towed in her wake.

Then two years of famine, and a dearth of podium places. He’d heard it said Mila couldn’t cope with the pressure, that she was too distracted by boys, but for all her flirty talk, she’d always been there at the rink putting in the work. And that was how she’d clawed her way to three in the world.

“I like your new routine,” he said at last.

“Yeah, so do I.” She grinned. “It’s such a relief knowing I can do it, y’know. Okay, I still need to work, but I don’t feel as if it’s beyond me.” She sucked on her lower lip and began to pick at her nail varnish again, pink flakes dusted her jeans, but she didn’t sweep them away. “You’re having trouble, right?”

He nodded. And with that small gesture something inside him bent and snapped. “I’m losing it on _spins,_ Mila.”

“’Cause you’re growing, your centre of gravity’s shifting, and you’re a teenager. You know all of this, Yuri, you’ve seen enough of us go through it. ‘Ungainly limbs and bendy bones’, that’s what Lilia used to tell me.” She sat back on her chair, splaying her legs out and stretching her arms above her head as she rolled her shudders and neck. “Just thank God you’re not a girl, Yuri. You’d have a lot more changing than just your height.” She winked, adding slyly, “And your voice.”

He poked out his tongue, the absurdly childish gesture making him feel silly and giddy, but happier again. “What do I do about it?”

“Hum, give yourself time to adjust. And listen to Yakov. Victor, too, so if he tells you to rest, it’s not ‘cause he’s favouring Yuuri, or trying to beat you to gold, but because he knows what he’s talking about, okay?”

 

There seemed to be a tag team going on, an implicit understanding because Yuri hadn’t seen Mila call, and he certainly hadn’t, but Yuuri turned up an hour or so later, a harried look on his face.

“There’s a few of your ...um ... fans outside,” he said after first checking the latest on Yuri’s grandfather.

“Yeah, I know. Three tried to rush me about an hour ago.”

“More like thirty now,” Yuri replied, chewing his lip. “The hospital won’t let them in, but would you like someone to speak to them?”

“And say what?”

“That you’re not injured,” Yuuri said. “I mean, that’s what they’re worried about, isn’t it? If they know you’re fine, then they’ll leave you alone, won’t they?”

“I’d rather they thought I was injured than knew about Gramps,” he muttered darkly.

“They’ll be sympathetic, won’t they?”

“Last year he visited me, and I posted pictures on Instagram,” Yuri said, recalling the occasion with a bitter laugh. “His house in Moscow was broken into.”

“Ah, okay.” Yuuri fiddled with his sleeve. “Course if you go out now and return to the rink, maybe post some pics of you skating, then this’ll die down.”

“I’m not moving. I don’t care about them.”

Mila had switched on her phone, furtively scrolling through her notifications, her eyebrows creasing in the middle and a purse to her lips that smoothed into a smile. “Phichit’s sent his love. Also Sara. And wow, even Seung-gil.”

“What they think I’m injured? What’s wrong with these people? Don’t they have other things to do?”

“C’mon, you have to admit you turning up at a hospital two days in a row with no explanation is going to cause interest,” Mila reasoned. “And they’re not gossiping about you, just ... uh ... sending hearts.” She snorted. “JJ posted a selfie, naturally.  Gahd, so did Christophe, and at a sauna. What’s with these guys?” She narrowed her eyes. “Let’s see if there’s anything from ... uh ... anyone else.”

Yuri scowled and plugged himself into his music.

The trouble was that the row was too recent, and _he_ would still have been brooding convinced he was right and refusing to brook another opinion.

_And I’m not contacting him either,_ he thought and kicked his chair leg so aggressively that Yuuri flinched.

 

Mila left, giving Yuri a sloppy sort of kiss (which he rubbed off in front of her) but saying she’d be back when she could. She left unsaid the option that she’d be back if anything happened, but squeezed him extra hard.

So now it was him and Yuuri, stuck in the corridor with English as their common language and no commonality apart from Victor and the ice. And he didn’t want to talk about skating or routines or choreography so as a last resort (it was either this or practising pliées in the corridor) Yuri pulled out his homework.

Which was still as hard as it had been the day before when he’d wanted to set fire to the book.

“Maths, right?”

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, just grunted out a yes and sighed.

“Need a hand?”

“Huh?”

Yuuri stretched out his hand. “I was pretty good at school. Want me to take a look?”

“Treat yourself,” Yuri retorted, but he handed the book over, sitting back against his wall and stretching out his legs. At least this way he wasn’t constantly thinking.

“Oh, yeah, I can see where you’ve gone wrong here,” Yuuri was saying, his finger pointing out one line in the equation.  “If you reread this part, then maybe you’ll –”

“Can’t you just tell me the answer,” Yuri grumped.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Yuuri said and smiled.

“God, you sound like a teacher. Is that your plan when you retire?”

“Maybe,” Yuuri replied, not rising to the bait. “Need something to fall back on, don’t we? Can’t skate forever.”

_Can’t we?_

He tried to imagine a life not skating, but it didn’t exist. Everything was ice to him, sparkling white and cold, the occasional flower tossed his way. And gold, warm like the sun, the only reward.

“Is it worth it?” he wondered, then blinked as he realised he’d said it aloud.

“Only you can answer that.”

“I don’t mean for me. Skating is all I’ve ever wanted to do,” Yuri replied. He inhaled sharply then let the breath seep out through his mouth.

And Yuuri waited for him to speak.

“I mean for Gramps. He brought me up, you know? Sacrificed so much and is it worth it for him if –”

The words clogged at his throat, a hard mass clawing his craw, scratchy and dry.

“If –” He tried again.

“Victor says this hospital’s excellent,” Yuuri said. “They have the best people here, so I’m sure your Granddad’s going to be just fine.”

“Victor said that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How does he know?”

Yuuri had returned to the maths problems, frowning a little, not sensing the danger.

“He had a back problem, he told me, and came here. Their specialists are the best in Russia, so when he got the call about your granddad, he knew exactly where he should –”

He finally stopped babbling. Stopped lavishing praise on Victor, and literally bit his tongue.

“Victor sent the ambulance here!”

“Um ...”

“Katsudon, tell me the truth!  Did Victor tell the ambulance to bring my granddad here?”

He nodded, then gave a watery type of smile, but his hands were steady, not wavering.  “We can’t fucking afford this,” he hissed. “I thought the Ice Federation were paying and now you tell me Victor told them what to do.”

“Look, he’s in the best place, isn’t that what matters?”

“Yes ... but ... no ... but ...”

How did Katsudon not understand? After Yakov’s cut and travel expenses, half of what he earned went back to his family. And if he was washed up, if Mila was wrong and he never got back to his skating best – remaining off centre for the rest of his life – then how the fuck was he going to scratch any sort of living with this debt hanging over his head?

“You don’t get it!” he yelled. “None of you do. Victor’s so fucking loved up, and full of himself he doesn’t understand how other people live. He’s rich. Paying for something like this is spare change to a living legend, but for me – what the fuck was he thinking?”

Not cowering, Yuuri got to his feet and tried to reach out, but Yuri didn’t want to hear excuses. He didn’t want the pitying reasons thrown at him, and ... he didn’t want to be here listening to this fucking crap when he now had to work out how the fuck he’d pay for the bill he’d been saddled with when –

“I was thinking of you.”

Yuri span on his heel. Victor stood there, changed out of his training kit and in normal clothes, un-coach like clothes of jeans and a sweater, a large puffed black jacket proof against the cold. He ran a hand through his hair, taming the ruffles so it fell perfectly back into place.

“Or more pertinently I was thinking of what was best for Nikolai,” Victor drawled. “There wasn’t time to consult you, Yurio, so I sent the ambulance here and assured them the bill would be paid.” He shrugged. “We can work out details later, but surely the most important concern is your Grandfather’s health.”

“You should have told me. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“I figured there were more important things to concentrate on,” Victor replied calmly, then he licked his lips. “But yes, you’re right. I was treating you like a child.”

It was then that Yuuri stepped between them. He smiled at Victor, taking his arm. “Why are you here? I thought your session wasn’t ending for another hour.”

And Victor smiled, his mouth wide and eyes crinkling at the sides. “A visitor appeared at the rink, demanding to see Yurio. Very persistant, and refused to believe we weren’t hiding something.”

“Not one of the angels,” Yuri groaned.

“You think I’d have brought them here,” Victor replied, amused.

“So where’s this visitor?” Yuri asked. He rolled his eyes. “Please don’t tell me it’s Christophe, I’m not in the mood for selfies.”

“He’s parking up,” Victor said. “We took his mode of transport as Yuuri has my car.”

Yuri blinked. “What?”

“Must say, it’s a lot of fun being a passenger,” Victor continued, his smile now sly as he tossed his head, “but those bike helmets play havoc with my hair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bike? Who on earth could that be?


	4. scattering like light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hero of Kazakhstan is here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter of the fic written for the beautiful Eilidh (rinoa11) Hope you enjoyed this. 
> 
> Thank you to Kseniya (TrianaNero) for help with Russian hospitals. Any errors are mine and not hers.

[Small Blue Thing](https://youtu.be/tPkhoZzsono) is by Suzanne Vega if you'd like to listen (and imagine Yuri skating)

 

* * *

 

 

Yuri was half way down the corridor, running full pelt for the second time that day when the thought occurred to him.

_What if Victor’s taking the piss?_

Then another.

_What if Georgi drove him over?_

And finally.

_How fucking uncool do I look sprinting like this?_

As soon as he pictured his red face, awry hair, and the really skanky trainers he was wearing because Mila hadn’t picked up his converse, some kind of fashion deity caused his lace to untie and suddenly he was flying, with helicopter arms scrabbling at the air, arse over tip and about to crash onto the tiled floor.

_This is really gonna hurt,_ he thought as the momentum carried him. But in that split second where he was deciding whether to use his arms to break his fall and possibly fuck them up, or whether to just take the hit to his face, someone swooped in.

It wasn’t arms plucking him to safety, but a body sliding in and underneath, leaving Yuri to land plum atop a figure clad in black.

“Beka? It _is_ you.”

_Dammit, I meant to be offhand. I sound like some fucking Disney princess._

But then when someone’s literally saved your face from a pounding, it’s hard to act as if you’re not bothered they’re there.

“Yuri.” Otabek’s voice was a rasp, as if someone had punched the air out of his lungs.

Although as Yuri had just crushed him to the floor maybe he was struggling to breathe. Levering himself off, Yuri untangled their limbs and sat on the floor.

“What are you doing here?”

“Your injury,” Otabek muttered, and shook his head as if it should be obvious. “I thought you’d need support. Isn’t that what friends do?”

“I’m not injured.”

From his prone position on the floor, Otabek stared up at him, gnawing at his lower lip. “Yuri, I know you probably have to keep this quiet, but you must know I wouldn’t say anything. Not to anyone.”

“Not to JJ,” Yuri blurted out.

“Of course not!” Frowning, Otabek finally started to move, shuffling to his feet, then extending his hand to pull Yuri up.

Yuri declined his hand and stood up, chucking his hands back in his pocket. “How are you?” he muttered.

“Me? I’m fine. It’s you that has the –”

“I’m not injured,” Yuri repeated, and started to walk back down the corridor.

“But Phichit said –”

“Phichit?”

“He texted me,” Otabek called, then broke into a jog to catch him up. “Said you’d hurt your knee, or it might have been your shoulder, and –” He blinked. “You were running just then.”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s your shoulder?”

Snorting, Yuri pulled down his zip and shrugged off the hoodie. “If I was injured could I do this, Biker-boy?”

And throwing his jacket at Otabek, he proceeded to perform a set of châinés, landing and then executing a perfect cartwheel.

“You’re not injured,” Otabek said. “Victor didn’t lie.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Nothing. Just swore you were okay.” He sniffed. “Well, he said you weren’t hurt physically, but when I asked what that meant, he wouldn’t say anything else except it was down to you to tell people.”

“And then poor brooding Otabek refused to leave and kept shouting over my music until I brought him here,” Victor interrupted. He sauntered towards Yuri, laying a hand on his arm to draw him away and murmur, “He was very worried about you, Yurio, and has flown a long way to be here.”

“Heyyyyy, why don’t we get coffee?” Yuuri enthused, and dragged Victor off without actually asking anyone what they wanted.

Yuri stared at Otabek.

 Otabek stared at Yuri.

A nurse walked past eyeing both with curiosity. It was the young one from before, and Yuri could have sworn she gave him a smile, or more likely, she was smiling at Otabek, who was looking just as he always did.

Fricking cool and emotionless.

Black _really_ did suit him.

“So,” Otabek began. “Not physically injured? Is it ... uh ... You’ve not been training, so ... um ...” He reddened, unable to finish, maybe unsure whether what he was about to say was insulting or just so wide of the mark that Yuri would laugh.

“ _I’m_ okay,” Yuri tried to reassure him.

But Otabek had taken a deep breath, and screwed up his face. “I know what it’s like to have to carry everyone’s expectations on your shoulders. It’s always worse once you’ve won because they don’t expect you’ll ever fail again.”  He shuffled his feet and stared at the floor. “I ... uh ... I talk to a psychologist sometimes.”

“Huh?” Yuri swallowed. “Um, I really am fine, Beka,” he said gently. “And we have psychologists. It’s kinda compulsory, so ...” He took a breath, letting it ease out between his lips, waiting for Otabek to look up, to meet his eyes.

_His undercut’s growing out,_ he thought inconsequentially.

“What’s wrong then? Why aren’t you at practise?

“My Gramps has pneumonia,” Yuri replied, keeping it simple. “He’s ...” his voice caught in his throat. “He’s in intensive care.”

And he had no idea how Otabek would react (he’d had no idea how any of them would react) but he’d not expected this. A face now white, and then Otabek breached the gap between them and wrapped his arms around him, a brief, but tight, tight hug holding him close.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, before quickly letting go.

Yuri shivered. The sudden loss of contact seemingly dropping his body temperature two or three degrees. With a flump, something landed on his shoulder, Otabek returning his hoodie, then giving him a grim type of smile.

“How is he?”

“Uh...” Yuri’s voice shook as his eyes wandered towards the ward window. “Not sure really. He has a tube down his throat, is on antibiotics and is asleep most of the time, but when I’m allowed to sit with him, he knows I’m there.”

“And the hospital’s good?” Otabek asked, looking around.

 “Yeah, it’s private, so at least I know he’s in safe hands.” He shrugged. “And it’s new, so ...”

“I didn’t know it was your grandfather who was ill.” He chewed his lip again. “I really thought it was you.”

“Sorry you came now?” Yuri said, trying not to sound bitter, but reconciliation over an injury and possible lost future was far more dramatic than the spectre of a spluttering old man. Fodder for the next routine, an experience Otabek could draw on. “Maybe you should have called first.”

“No, I’m sorry I didn’t get an earlier flight,” Otabek countered. He sighed and took a seat, waiting for Yuri to join him. “And I thought about phoning, but I’m ... uh ... things are better said face to face.”

_Didn’t want me hanging up on you, more like_ , he thought. _Which I probably  would have done._  Yuri pushed his hands into his jacket pockets. “You’d have still turned up had you known?”

He nodded. “Your Grandfather means a lot to you, I know that. Must have been tough.”

“Yeah ... thank you.”

He meant it, and with a small step, he joined Otabek, pushing the discarded maths homework onto the floor. “How is Canada?” he asked politely.

_Tell me it’s shit. Tell me it’s shit. Tell me it’s the biggest mistake you’ve made and you’ve reconsidered and –_

“It’s good,” Otabek replied. He leant back, his head against the wall. “I like the college and the facilities are excellent.”

“Better than here!” He couldn’t help it. The waspish note in his voice buzzed between them.

But Otabek didn’t react, except with a side-glance. “Not better than here, but you know my problem.”

“Madame Baranovskaya’s brilliant -” Yuri blurted out, then bit back his words because it was the same argument, one not worth rehashing now.

The silence said it all. No second thoughts.

“It’s right for you,” Yuri sighed.

“I think so.” He took a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled long and slow.

“And JJ?” Yuri forced himself to ask, tasting the bitterness as it caught in his craw.

“Not so bad.”

Yuri snorted.

“Fifty percent of the time, he’s a pretty okay guy,” Otabek replied and closed his eyes.

“Really!”

“Yeah, when he’s asleep,” Otabek deadpanned.

And then, he gave another smile, a small half smile, a little lopsided, and for some reason Yuri’s stomach felt like cotton candy and buttery popcorn, swirling and popping inside of him.

“When he starts talking too much, I pretend my English isn’t very good,” Otabek continued and opened his eyes. “I haven’t let on I speak French yet.”

“Otabek Altin, that’s very sneaky of you,” Yuri said laughing. “I like it!”

Otabek rolled his shoulders, settling back against the chair. “When you get to know JJ, he’s not ... uh ...

“A prick?” Yuri offered.

“As conceited, I was going to say. His parents and Isabella have made me feel very welcome.”

“She stuck around then.”

Otabek raised his eyebrows in a ‘why are you so cynical?’ way, and Yuri thought about scowling back, but stopped because ... because ... because ...

_I want to smile. For the first time in two days, no, for the first time in weeks, I want to smile._

***

And he had more reason to smile, when after finishing a hot chocolate, and listening as Yuuri and Otabek swapped stories about the Four Continents Cup, a doctor emerged from his grandfather’s room.

“He’s making good progress. His lungs are clearing, his breathing is less laboured and his temperature is down.”

“And his heart?” Yuri asked.

“We don’t expect any further problems,” the doctor replied, addressing him and not deferring to anyone, not even Victor. “But we would like to keep him in a while longer.”

“Can I see him?”

“Of course. And then, I strongly advise that you go home and rest.”

Good news, like competition wins, had the effect of rendering everything around Yuri nonsensical. He was a wisp of smoke, clamouring for a form, searching for a way to react, light and bright and full of air, then like a fletch of arrows, it pierced him.

Relief.  Happiness. The world turning again.

And Yuri began to cry.

***

**Russ1anPunk** :  That’s Otabek Altin on the bike!  
**YuRiIsMiNe:**. @ **Russ1anPunk**   how do u no?  
**Angel4Yuri** : Everyone knows that **@ YuRiIsMiNe**  
yur1gurl:  Wasn’t he in Barcelona?  
**Angel4Yuri** : yep. He’s Yuri’s best friend.  
**Russ1anPunk** : So if he’s come over from Canada it must mean it’s a serious injury.  
**YuRiIsMiNe:** No, Noooooo, I’ll die if Yurio’s badly hurt.  
**Angel4Yuri** : **@yuri-plisetsky** Please tell us if ur okay. We love you. ♥

 

“You should answer them,” Victor drawled.

Yuri attempted to snarl, and moved his phone out of Victor’s sightline. “And say what?”

“That you’re not injured would be a start. Or say you’re fine now,” Victor continued as he sank into his armchair.

By his side on the sofa, Yuri felt rather than saw Otabek’s nod of agreement. Smirking at his camera, he took a selfie, holding up two fingers in a peace sign.

[ **yuri-plisetsky:**   There’s no injury. I was]

“What shall I say?” he asked, hesitating before he finished typing.

“Visiting a friend?” Yuuri suggested.

 “They’ll bug me for news.”

“Having a medical,” Victor said. “They’re not to know you had one last month.”

**yuri-plisetsky:**   There’s no injury. I was having my annual medical.

He felt an elbow in his side, a soft nudge. “What?” he said, glaring at Otabek.

“You should thank them.”

“Especially for these delicious brownies,” Victor said, breaking one in two and giving half to Makkachin.

“Why don’t you?” Yuri muttered to Otabek and gestured to the box of chocolates that had been left on the doorstep leading up to the apartments “Those are yours.”

“I ... uh ... I’ve forgotten my password. Haven’t been on Instagram for months.” He cleared his throat finishing with, “Didn’t see the point when ... um ... we weren’t ... uh ...”

To hide his confusion, Otabek stretched out for a brownie, leaving Yuri with his own thoughts and a flushing face to bury under his sleeve. He could feel Yuuri’s scrutiny, and Victor’s amused eyes boring into him, but he ignored them both instead returning to his phone.

**yuri-plisetsky:** Thanks for the support, guys. **@otabek-altin** says thank you for the chocolates, too.

 

It was later, when Victor and Yuuri had called it a night, returning only with a spare quilt for Otabek and instructions on setting up the sofa bed, that Yuri felt he could truly relax.

“Thanks for coming,” he said again.

“It’s okay. You’d have done the same for me.”

“You know that for sure, do you?” Yuri pondered.

Otabek nodded. He reached across, taking Yuri’s hand in his, giving him a brief squeeze. And he’d meant to release him, Yuri was sure of that, but Yuri clasped hold and met his eyes.

“I might not have done,” he admitted. “I was too mad at you.”

“You would,” Otabek replied. His fingers interlaced with Yuri’s, the action firm and confident, but there was colour mounting in his cheeks and his eyelids flickered.

“How do you know?”

“Because above everything, we’re friends. You’d have contacted me, or contacted someone, however mad you were.”

“You think too much of me,” Yuri mumbled. “I’m not that kind.”

“I’m not talking kindness, but ... I don’t know ... duty perhaps, and knowing you should do the right thing.” Otabek cast him a sheepish look. “It’s what soldiers do.”

They were still holding hands. It felt right, and not at all awkward, so Yuri ran his thumb across Otabek’s palm.

 And held his breath.

Time froze, then flipped on its head, blood thundered in Yuri’s head, and the light in the room dimmed.

Or maybe it wasn’t the lights. Maybe it was because all Yuri could see was Otabek as he loomed closer, leaning in, a hair’s breadth between them.

Time dragged, then stopped, ticking no more.

And all Yuri could hear was Otabek’s halting breaths.

Otabek would make no further move, but as if the video player was in slow motion, Yuri inched closer, bridging that last divide with a pucker of his lips.

Soft. But a little chapped. A hesitation.

_Above everything, we’re friends,_ Otabek’s words hummed in his mind.

_What if I’ve got this wrong?_

If he pulled away, he could scowl and brush this off as nothing. Pretend it was stress, emotion getting the better of him as it did in the kiss and cry. But his free hand curled around Otabek’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt filling the spaces between Yuri’s fingers. He could feel the warmth of his body under his palm and smell the faint musk of his hair.

Both soldiers. Hardened by life and their racketing careers as they made connections then moved on to put the world between them as they searched for an elusive prize.

Biting back a moan, Yuri flushed, apologised and made to pull away, but now it was Otabek leaning in.

“I never believed –” Beka muttered, before the rest of the sentence was lost between them.

And a myriad of thoughts swirled around Yuri’s brain, nonsense and sunshine, and spinning on the ice, his head awhirl with gold imprinting on his eyelids.

***

Breakfast the next morning was distinctly shaky. Otabek, ruffled out of his usual stoicism, had small and soft smiles flitting across his face, even when he wasn’t looking at Yuri. For his own part, Yuri tried and failed to act normally, instead becoming stroppier, which to his chagrin only caused Victor to laugh uproariously and Yuuri to turn his head away as he snorted.

Only Makkachin remained unaffected, padding up to the table and resting his head on each person’s knee as he begged for scraps.

“How long are you here for?”Victor asked, quickly adding that Otabek was welcome to stay as long as he wanted.

“I could stay a week, maybe,” Otabek replied, “as long as I can ... uh ...” He swallowed some tea. “Will I be able to use your rink? Or can you point me in the direction of a public one.”

“Out of the question. You must come along with us,” Victor said peremptorily. “Yurio, are you coming back today?”

_Am I?_

“Just for the morning. Go through that new routine,” Victor continued. He paused to break up a croissant. “And if you _really_ hate it, then we have plenty of time to search for something else.”

“I don’t hate it,” Yuri mumbled, then cast Victor a sheepish look, “I’m not performing it well, though.”

“You’re having problems?” Otabek stopped eating, motionless apart from eyes in rapid blink mode. “I th-thought you said you were fine. There was no injury.”

“There isn’t. I’m ... um ... it’s nothing,” Yuri mumbled, and picked up his juice to hide the blush stealing over his cheeks.”

“Nothing a few months won’t sort out,” Yuuri said cheerfully.

That reassurance did nothing to dispel Otabek’s consternation, the concern palpable from his frozen face to stiff posture.

Victor’s smile was sly, and the careless way he tossed back his hair exposed the glint in his eyes. “Just a growth spurt,” he said idly. “Surprised you’ve not noticed, Otabek.”

“Will you shut up?” Yuri yelled, sure his face was now beet red, certainly as red as Beka’s who’d suddenly become very interested in his hands.

“It happened to me,” Victor continued, seemingly unaware, but there was also a strong possibility he was holding back a laugh. “What about you, Yuuri?”

“Me?” Yuuri considered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Um, well, yeah, I guess, but then I wasn’t as prominent on the Junior circuit as the pair of you, so the contrast wasn’t that marked. What about you, Otabek?”

With his colour back to normal, the pink having left, Otabek shrugged. “I ... uh ... grew slowly, so any adjustment was easily accommodated.” He paused then took a sip of his coffee. “I had a good grounding in technique, though, which you have, Yuri.”

As the heat started to leave his face, Yuri pondered their words. “It’s not just my spins that are off. What if I can’t get the height back on my jumps?”

“You will. I have faith.” Victor tilted his head to one side, assessing. “You’re the one we all have to beat.”

He was so surprised, astonished at Victor’s sincerity, that admission in front of his boyfriend, that Yuri jerked in his chair and the juice splattered over his clothes.

“Fuck!”

“Go and change,” Yuuri said, “I’ll clear up.”

“I don’t have another hoodie,” he complained, wringing out his sleeve.

“Oh, we can help there,” Yuuri replied. He got up from the table, flashing Victor a smile before escaping to his bedroom and returning with a bag. “Your birthday present, direct from Chiang Mai.”

“Huh?” He’d forgotten all about it; the conversation he’d had with Yuuri had been barely one day before, but yes, here was a gift, just as Yuuri had promised, and Victor was grinning like the Cheshire Cat waiting for him to open it.

A big gift, soft and bulky, so clothes, probably. Yuri chuckled to himself remembering the excitement of birthdays past where he’d open everything in front of him as soon as possible, only pausing when it was over and all his gifts were there smiling up at him.

With far more patience, he slid his finger under the opening in the paper, heard the tiniest of rips as the sellotape tore, and then he laughed.

It was clothes. It was, as he’d suspected, a hoodie. It was black, and rather conservative for his taste, but when he turned it over, he saw the tiger roaring back at him, gold and orange and black, with amber eyes sparkling at him, its face peering through blades of green and the over one shoulder a yellow sun beating down to bask the beast in a halo of light.

“Whoa...”

“Phichit told me that Thai tigers are smaller than Bengals and Siberians,” Yuuri began, his eyes glinting as he talked. “And they’re solitary. Their numbers were in decline, but ... uh ... they’re survivors, especially if they band together.”

“Like soldiers,” Otabek muttered, not meeting Yuri’s eyes.

And if Victor or Yuuri were curious about this utterance, they gave no sign, continuing with breakfast.

Yuri wrapped himself in the new hoodie. It was soft inside, fleecy and warm, slopping off his shoulders, a little too big even for him.

_But,_ he mused to himself, _it gives me time and room to grow._

***

Otabek on the ice was just as dynamic as he’d ever been. Landing his jumps, perfecting his quads and spinning in the tightest of circles, his speed and power were as evident in St Petersburg as they’d been in Barcelona. And watching him, Yuri felt again the type of admiration that transcends jealousy.

And yet, Otabek was different. There was passion there. Not the passion of proud tradition, the love and duty to his heritage, but a passion that was softening his edges and drawing them all in.

“Interesting,” Mila whispered, leaning over the rink. “He was hard as nails last time I saw him skate.” Cupping her chin between her thumb and finger, her brow creased in concentration. “It’s like he’s lived a little more, experienced other things. It’s not that he’s weaker, or anything, but Otabek’s ... um ...”

“A diamond,” Victor said, not looking up as he laced his skate.

“What?” Yuri queried, interested in spite of his usual vow to ignore Victor when he was being enigmatic.

“Hard like a diamond,” Victor explained. “But his facets are starting to shine. He’s learnt to project _himself,_ which I’m guessing is the Leroys’ influence. ” He narrowed his eyes. “At the Grand Prix, he was technically excellent, but lacked a certain ... _warmth_. He’s improved exponentially even since the Four Continents and Yuuri found him tough to beat then.” Still pondering, Victor ran his tongue across his lips. “He’s looser, and somewhere along the way he’s learned how to give more.”

Yuuri was skating towards them, a lesson in artistry, attempting leaps with one arm up to raise the level of difficulty.  He landed then smiled directly at Victor, who’d flashed him a wink.

“The four of you will be duking it out for the podium places this year,” Mila observed, switching to English. “No one else stands a chance.”

“Seung-gil will slit your throat if you repeat that,” Yuuri said, laughing and he sped off again.

But there was hunger in his voice, too, a hunger not at all assuaged by recent success.

With a shake of his head – not at all satisfied – Otabek finished his session, joining Yuri as Victor took to the ice.

“Canada’s treating you well,” Mila sang, and screwing up her nose, she blew him a kiss. “You’re looking good, Otabek,”

Wiping the sweat off his forehead with a towel, he shrugged off the compliment, complaining instead that he couldn’t get the height he wanted on his last combination.

Yuri handed him a water bottle, amused when Otabek tipped half of it over his head. The water drops glistened on his dark hair and after he’d blotted it dry, fronds clung to his cheeks. He swigged down the rest, before settling back in a chair to remove his skates. His fingers plucked absentmindedly at his laces, but his eyes were focused on the two skaters swishing past them, Victor slowing into a camel spin, gliding forever, his control absolute as he upped the pace and into a perfect quad loop.

“He doesn’t look as if he’s ever been away,” Otabek murmured, fingers stilling on the knot at his ankle. He succeeded in loosening the lace, and then glanced at Yuri. “Want to go to the hospital, now?”

“Um...”

It was now the fifth day, Yuri’s fourth night at Victor’s, and Otabek’s third in Russia. Yuri had watched them all from the sidelines, watched but not taken in the effort and improvement until now, his thoughts taken up entirely by events at the hospital. He’d watch and wait for one of them to finish, grateful for the tag team accompanying him to the hospital, because although he could have gone alone, there was always the nagging fear that the worst would have happened in the night.

Today he’d phoned after breakfast, as always, but this time the young nurse from the ward had given him the update, her voice cheerful as she breezed through his Gramps’ peaceful night without the tube helping him breathe.

“He’s been talking about you,” she’d said.

“Asking for me?”

“No, not really. He was telling me you’re a skater.” He could practically see the dimples in her face as he heard her talk through a smile. “He’s very proud of you.”

 

And all of a sudden, he longed to be back on the ice. The pain in his legs was worth the sheer thrill of it. The frustration of not being able to land a jump, or spin as tight, was nothing compared to the loneliness of the sidelines.

“I’m gonna skate first,” he decided. “Gramps’ll kill me if I skip again.”

 

The break, the lack of sleep, the shitty diet of the past few days had done Yuri no favours. And yet when he pushed off from the side, feeling the ice under his blades, he was home.

Much to Yakov’s disapproval, (because a rival not under his auspices was present) Yuri requested his music, continuing his warm up as he waited for the song to be cued. Victor took his place alongside the coach, deferring to him, but also watching, his fingers gripping the rinkside barrier.

Here we go.

_‘Today I am a small blue thing’_

Gramps holding his hand in the hospital.

_‘With my knee against my mouth  
I am perfectly round.’_

He didn’t centre his spin properly, over-rotated on his first jump, and landed with one hand down on his second combination. But this was good, this was freedom from the shackles of life, this was a flight across ice, his skates giving him wings.

And maybe his limbs were protesting but not unbearably. It was more a chastisement for him ever thinking they’d betray him.

_Adjust,_ he thought.

_‘I am skipping down the sidewalk’ -_ Should be a straight step sequence, but what if he changed to serpentine and added more Mohawk turns?

Build up speed, feel the burn in the legs, steer into it and...

_‘I am thrown against the sky’_

Quad – double – legs hurt but landed perfectly. No hand down.

_‘I am scattering like light’_ – another leap and land and...

_‘Scattering like light’_

_Beka’s lips are warm. I lean into him, throw back my neck, his mouth trails down, teeth nuzzling my ear. His hands cup my face._

_‘Scattering like light’_

_My head spins more than it ever did on the ice._

“Shit, I missed a jump!”

“Carry on,” Yakov ordered.

Here, then.

_‘I am turning in your hand_

He set off from the front of the skate, extra rotation needed, twisting in the air, twirling like a gymnast’s ribbon.

_‘Turning in your hand’_

Axel quad, the perfect jump to segue into one final spin, but he flubbed the landing, tipping forward, and now he could only imagine the ‘I told you so’ on Victor’s face.

“Don’t scowl so,” Victor chided as he skated past.

“You’re about to bollock me for changing your routine.

“Not in the slightest. And it’s not my routine, but yours.” Victor leant across the barrier. “If you still want it.”

“I’ll think about it,” he grumped, but he couldn’t stop his downturned mouth curving upwards, especially when he saw Beka motionless behind the barrier, jaw dropped.

***

“Shouldn’t you be at the rink?”

“I have been,” Yuri said, sliding into the chair by his bedside.

He’d been moved out of Intensive care and to a private room, which not only benefitted from a television, but comfortable chairs, padded and not plastic.

“Not slacking, Yurochka!”

“No! Got there early, skated, came here, and then to the airport. I’ll go back later for another session.”

“Airport?” Gramps frowned, and then his brow cleared as he remembered. “The Kazakh boy, Altin, is he off today?”

Yuri nodded, not really wanting to say anything else, but he could tell by the way his Gramps’ eyes were on him that he was storing up questions, maybe not wanting answers right yet.

“You’ll miss him,” Gramps settled for.

Yuri affected a shrug. “We have Instagram. And we’re bound to meet up in competition.”

His Gramps snorted. “Make sure you beat him. And Victor. And Katsuki.”

“I’ll try.” Yuri dragged his teeth over his lip. “If I lost, though ...”

“There’ll be no pirozhki for a month!” Gramps huffed.

“Really?”

“Pfft, maybe.” He coughed, but his chest didn’t rattle and wheeze. And after a slurp of water, he patted the side of the bed.

Yuri touched his hand. “What’s up, Gramps?”

“You make me proud, Yuri,” Gramps began. “But you always have, even before you won gold, even before you started skating.  And you always will, no matter what happens.”

There was a warm lump in his throat and a well of tears thrumming behind his eyes, and Yuri knew if he attempted to speak, nothing would come out except a squeak or a rasp. He gripped his grandfather’s hand tight, then getting up from his chair, he kissed him on the cheek.

 

The trouble with airports was the lack of privacy. Goodbyes were said at every gate, with extended families waving off their loved one. If Yuri could be content to just wave, then he’d get through the airport farewell just fine. But then looking across at Otabek’s closed face, his stern expression as he stood in queue for security, Yuri wasn’t entirely sure the day wouldn’t end with a formal handshake and a stiff goodbye.

“I almost forgot.”

“Forgot what?” Yuri asked.

Otabek turned around. There was colour mounting in his cheeks, darkening the tan of his skin, but he held Yuri’s gaze. “Your birthday. I was going to ring but ... sorry.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I thought the last person you’d want to hear from was me,” Otabek muttered. “Even then I did dial, but I didn’t press call.”

“Wish you had,” Yuri muttered, remembering the day and how it had just been him and Gramps eating cake.

“If I’m honest it was easier avoiding you rather than hearing you yell at me to ... uh ... get lost.”

“Fuck off out of my life, you mean,” Yuri snickered.

“Mmm, something like that.” He hesitated, then patted his pocket. “Anyway, I bought you something.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not much, but it’s for luck,” Otabek qualified as he pulled out a small paper bag. “And ... uh ... it’s not wrapped.”

It dropped into Yuri’s palm, a leather strap with something small attached. Blue, round, made of glass.

“It’s an amulet,” Otabek explained.

 Yuri murmured a thank you, and turning it in his hand, he examined the concentric circles, blue, white, light blue and black diminishing to the centre. An eye to ward off bad luck.

“Cheshm nazar,” Otabek said, and  holding Yuri’s hand, he tied it around his wrist. “It’s superstitious nonsense but ... uh ... my Mom ... uh ...”

“We have them in Russia. Mila swears Georgi has one tattooed on his butt to ward off evil ice hockey players.” He stopped speaking, aware of Otabek’s fingertips lingering in his wrist, warm against his skin.

“I need to go through,” Otabek mumbled, not moving.

“I wish there weren’t _so_ many people.”

“We said our goodbyes at the apartment,” Otabek whispered, and laced their fingers together. 

But it was all too brief. The security assistant called out a stern ‘Next’. Otabek relinquished Yuri’s fingers and took the first step towards the barriers, the first step away from Russia, away from St Petersburg, away from Yuri.

And although he longed to crush his mouth to Otabek’s lips one more time, he watched him go, not plucking him back, or demanding he stayed.

Otabek turned before he reached the barrier, raised his hand to his mouth and then towards Yuri, the gesture fleeting but clear.

“Thank you!” he yelled, and blew him a kiss too.

And if the people at the gates gawped and tutted, he didn’t care. Head held high, hood down, Yuri watched until Otabek had disappeared beyond security.

If he’d pled more, would Otabek have stayed? Could he have persuaded him to remain in Russia having shown him the set up? Possibly.

But pride drove Otabek as much as anything. Pride that he’d find his own way of doing things, and if he kept true to himself, then not even defeat would batter him.

_And for me?_  

He thought of lips on his, fingers in his hair and the rasp of Beka’s chin on his neck. 

He thought of Gramps, now sitting up in bed and complaining that the hospital soup was awful. 

He thought of Yuuri laying out pyjamas on his bed, and dropping the odd Russian phrase into conversation with an awful accent, and beaming at Victor’s praise.  

Of Victor’s attempt at cool analysis bursting into scorching enthusiasm and cheers when either of them landed a combination.

He thought of Yakov and Madam Baranovskaya assiduously asking after his grandfather, of Georgi driving him to the hospital one afternoon, and buying him a magazine in case he was bored.

And finally of Mila holding him when the worst had threatened to devastate his world.

_Life drives me._

He fingered the bead on his wrist. A small blue thing.

_It’s life and love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took a little bit of licence with the Skating year when planning new routines. Forgive me!
> 
> First chaptered YoI fic done. Thank you if you've read, kudosed, commented and enjoyed.


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